


One Night In Bangkok

by WingedWhale



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Mary, F/M, Marylock - Freeform, Verbal Foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2774750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedWhale/pseuds/WingedWhale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock meets Mary whilst dismantling Moriarty's network in Thailand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night In Bangkok

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImpishTubist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/gifts).



> Brought this back to my original account as I figured it would be better to have all my stories under one account.
> 
> And yes, this is meant to be (sort of) a song fic. Cause let's face it, Chess is seriously awesome.

Bangkok, a city where anything could happen and it usually did. There was a heavy scent of unfiltered exhaust fumes and exotic street food beneath the garish neon lights of the ‘massage parlours’ and bars along the street. Moriarty had a network of corrupt officials here that worked for him and fed him money in exchange for his protection.

Sherlock Holmes breathed deeply, certain that these men were close. A police patrol was due in an hour and he felt certain that a little inquiry and a generous amount of cash bribery would get him the names he needed. He slipped into a crowded bar on the far edge of the “safe touristy” district, close enough to the shady areas enveloped by 

Moriarty’s network that he could see the activity of the street opposite where the corrupt police were known to patrol.

He settled into an empty seat by the window. Nothing to do but wait now. As always, Sherlock was hyper aware of his surroundings. There were a group of traveling Uni students behind him and what at first glance appeared to be an American or European businesswoman at the table in front of his. 

She was dressed in a smart navy blue blazer and slacks, her long platinum blond hair swept up into an elegant coif, her eyes fixed on her Macbook, the screen displaying an open Excel document. She wore sensible flat healed shoes for walking long distances, the sole of her left shoe particularly well worn. 

His eyes flicked to the small of her back and he instantly saw she was carrying a concealed handgun as there was no concave indentation of the blazer’s fabric as it lay against her back. Indeed, the material was completely flat as it lay over the layers of what was probably an ace bandage fitting the weapon to her person.

Interesting. Russian or even British Intelligence operatives did not conceal weapons. They preferred to get in close to their targets and disarm them in a lightning fast strike as soon as weapons were drawn. So perhaps she was CIA . . . the Yanks did so love their toys. Or she wasn’t an operative at all and simply was carrying the weapon “just in case” for personal safety.

Sherlock stood and walked casually past the woman as he crossed the room to the bar and ordered a Vodka tonic. As he returned to his table, the blonde lifted her eyes to his and gave him a little smile.

He purposefully ignored her and settled back in his seat, taking a long sip of his drink. He looked out the window, watching for his dirty cop. As his eyes were fixed on the dark street outside, his senses were acutely aware of the woman changing position slightly in her seat. And he could read her mind as easily as if it were one of the flashing neon signs hanging overhead outside.

She was wondering who he was, she thought he was attractive looking, and she was wondering why her smile hadn’t elicited any kind of response. Probably now wondering if he was gay. In fact, Sherlock stoic though he was had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud at the thought.

He continued to stare resolutely out of the window whilst he counted the seconds until the woman’s curiosity got the better of her. He could tell she was one of those people who once she was curious about something she wouldn’t let it go until she found out the information she wanted to know. And she was definitely curious about him.

He sighed and counted down the seconds, . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . and then the blonde turned round in her chair, her blue eyes gazing into him with unspoken questions.

“Hello,” she began, her voice soft.

He took his eyes from the window. “Hi,” he said and waited.  
“Business or pleasure?” she asked amiably in a London accent. “It looks like you’re waiting for someone.”

“Why must it be business or pleasure?” he asked. “Perhaps it’s a bit of both.”

Her lips parted into a genuine grin at that. “Oh, touchee! So is it a lucky bird or lucky bloke?”

Sherlock snorted impudently. “Do you really see the world in such black and white terms?”

The woman looked delightedly amused. Sherlock found he couldn’t help but smile back at her. She was harmless to him, that he was certain. Whoever she was and whatever she was doing with a gun under her blazer was her business.

“Would it surprise you if I admitted that I actually didn’t?”

“Not at all. We can simply blame your accustomed word choice on your association with the CIA.”

The woman’s eyes darkened instantly and Sherlock held up a hand to stave her off from drawing her fire-arm.

“It’s all right. Really. I’m not here to hurt you. I simply noticed that the way your blazer lays or rather doesn’t lay against your back means you must be concealing a hand gun. And as the CIA is generally known for being ridiculously ‘gun happy’ as it were, it wasn’t a tremendous leap to infer that you were connected to it.”

“That’s a rather impressive deduction,” the woman said softly. “Not many people in this world are so perceptive.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock agreed. “Most people are idiots. They see but never observe.”  
The woman closed her laptop and got up from her seat to set it on Sherlock’s table. She then took the seat opposite his.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“William,” he said with a dreadful grimace. “I actually go by Sherlock.”

“You’re joking!”

“No, . . . no I’m really not.”

“You must have been an interesting one at school. Did you get teased?”

“Heavens no, the other children were rather afraid of me.”

“Oh dear, so you were one of those kids.”

Sherlock laughed good-naturedly, marveling in how comfortable he felt with this strangely likeable woman. Even Irene had never come close to enchanting him in such a profound way. Indeed he imagined this woman could eat Irene Adler for breakfast without so much as breaking a sweat.

“And what’s your name?” Sherlock inquired.

“Oddly enough I’m actually in the market for a new one. Perhaps you can help me choose? But to answer your question, the one I was given at birth is Aleksandra.”

“Russian?” asked Sherlock.

“Nyet. Bosnian.”

“Ah.” Sherlock took another fortifying sip of his drink. When he set the glass back down on the table Mary reached over and helped herself to a taste.

 

“Not half bad, though personally I’m more of a wine drinker. Give me a good glass of pinot grigio over fancy liquor any day.”

“Despite what you see I’m not much of a drinker at all,” Sherlock confessed. “I like to eat my calories, not drink them.”

“I’ll get you some Japanese Shoshu then, tastes like Vodka and is less than ten calories a shot.”

“Good luck finding Shoshu here in Thailand.”

“You might be surprised at what I can find Sherlock.”

“Somehow I can picture you finding a Toblerone bar in the middle of the Sahara. You strike me as that kind of person.”

“Ha! I probably could you know. Shall we go and see?”

“To the Sahara?” Sherlock asked with a twitch of his lips.

“Why not? I haven’t been to Africa in a good while, oh . . . about seven years now.”

Sherlock snorted. “Why are you in Thailand? Or is that classified information?”

“I owed an Australian arms dealer a favour. It seems the Thai Minister of the Interior was funding a human trafficking ring here in Bangkok and shipping barely teenage children overseas to rich monsters who spend their days pretending to be men and their nights . . . well, . . . needless to say the man responsible for leading the operation is quite thoroughly dead now. Though it’s a pity, I would have loved to hear him scream a little while longer . . . Anyways, the Australian’s lover worked for Interpol and got killed whilst infiltrating a mansion in Italy belonging to a notorious customer. The perpetrator is in custody and if he ever gets freed I swear to you I’ll come out of retirement and kill him myself. I had a younger half sister once, . . . she was so bright and full of joy, smart as a whip too, wanted to go to University in England . . . but when war broke out in Sarajevo . . . she was captured . . . she was raped . . . and three weeks later she was dead. She was fifteen years old. And here I was abroad studying at Langley because I had an IQ of 160 and was exceptionally good at learning foreign languages.”

Aleksandra seemed to suddenly realise what she’d been saying and she glanced up apologetically at Sherlock.

“Sorry,” she said softly.

Compulsively acting on emotional instinct Sherlock quickly reached out and covered her hand with his.

“Do not apologise to me.”

“I’m not making a very good first impression, am I?” she said in a low voice, thick with unspoken pained emotion.

“I look at you and you know what I see?”

“What?” she asked softly.

“I see a survivor. A strong woman who lets nothing and no one stand in her way and takes impossible odds in stride.”

Aleksandra snorted. She snatched up Sherlock’s Vodka once more and drained the rest of it.

“Have you ever been to London?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes, it’s a beautiful city.”

“Indeed it is.” Sherlock held Aleksandra’s gaze with more intensity than was strictly polite for talking with an absolute stranger. There was a bizarre desire bubbling within him to take her face in his hands and kiss her right here and now in the middle of the crowded bar. Where that desire originated from he didn’t know and for once in his life he didn’t stop to analyse every neural synapse of his thoughts. He watched her from under half lowered lashes as she responded to the electrical connection of their mutual attraction for each by gently leaning towards him.

Sherlock reached out and settled his right hand against her cheek, in a soft caress. She breathed out and allowed her eyes to flutter closed at the warmth of his touch. For a trained assassin, closing her eyes was as deep a show of trust as she could possibly give him. He found himself wondering when the last time she’d received such intimately emotional contact was.

Sherlock leaned in and gently placed his lips over hers. He felt her tense for the barest of seconds before relaxing against him and opening her mouth. He kissed her fully, dragging his mouth intoxicatingly slowly over the seam of her lips. She kissed him back in with relaxed ease, allowing his tongue to slide against her own.

He probably tasted like cigarettes, given the how much he chain smoked now after leaving England, but Aleksandra didn’t seem to mind. When the kiss became too deep and long for public display, Sherlock broke away and looked into Aleksandra’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Now I have a corrupt policeman to talk with,” Sherlock’s ever quick gaze darted to the window and down the alley, a blue and white police vehicle was circling the block. “You can help if you’re interested,” he told her, his eyes sparkling. 

He stood up and held his hand out to her in open invitation. She smiled with genuine excitement and took his hand without hesitation.

 

“Lead the way Sherlock,” she said, gently poking fun at his name with her tone.

“I’m so sorry, but I just don’t know if I can say that name with a straight face.”

Sherlock gave her a sidelong look. “I’ll let you call me Will then, but only when we’re alone.”

Aleksandra turned and looked up at him without missing a beat. “Oh, I’m sure I can imagine a few other things to call you when we’re alone.”

Sherlock arched a brow in openly aroused amusement. “I have one or two for you already in mind.”

“Do you now?” Aleksandra inquired slyly.

They walked across the street just as the police car was making its second or third pass around the block.

“How discreet do you want to be with this?” Aleksandra asked.

“There’s no need to point your gun in his face if that’s what you’re asking,” Sherlock told her. He walked over to the car and the policeman rolled down the driver’s window.

“Hi there,” he said, affecting a voice devoid of any sort of accent like something you’d hear out of middle America. Aleksandra smiled from Sherlock’s side. “Can you tell me where the Saffron Hotel is located? Jim Moriarty said I could trust the cops on this street.”

The cop eyed Sherlock up and down. “Have you rented a vehicle?”

“I’ve got an ancient Jeep with a sticky gear box.” Sherlock pointed towards a battered black Jeep from the 80s parked alongside the bar.  
“It’s over there.”

“Follow me.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Sherlock said discreetly slipping a large sum of bills through the police car’s window. The corrupt cop rolled up his window and Sherlock smiled at Aleksandra as they made their way back to his rather sorry excuse for a rental car.

“So Moriarty, huh? Isn’t he that misogynistic doe-eyed weasel?”

Sherlock laughed. “All that and more. I take it you’ve met him then?”

“Only once. It was enough to leave a lasting impression on me though. He made a pass at me and I only just restrained myself from castrating him.”

“Yeah . . . he’s a fun one.”

Aleksandra pulled a disdainful face. “Yes, that’s one way of putting it. What did he do to you to prompt you chasing after his associates clear across the globe?”

“Oh, you know, a little of this and a little of that. He murdered people and strapped a bomb to my best friend’s chest to get my attention. He even pretended to be flamboyantly gay to impress me. I never quite had the heart to tell him he got that bit wrong.”

Aleksandra snorted. “Where’s the little wanker at now? Aren’t you worried he’ll crash your holiday?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He thinks I’m dead.”

“You’re sure?”

“My brother is head of MI-6. He and his people enabled me to fake my death very convincingly. I speak to him once a month or so, and he hasn’t heard anything about where ‘the little wanker’ might be hiding. If you want my guess, he’s probably at some cosy little resort in Belize or the Caimans. Besides, he faked his death, too. What would be the point of that if he continued on with things in a busy city where someone could recognise him and blow the whistle that he’s still breathing?”

“Okay, but if he’s out of the game as you suggest, why go after everyone on this blue and green ball of rock who was once loyal to him?”

“I’m systematically ridding the free world of every man or woman who owed a personal favour to James Moriarty. Most of them have been sent to prison on irrefutable evidence of wrong-doing that will guarantee them sentences of at least twenty years. Others met a more permanent end. I need to be sure to remove every avenue of leverage over me that he possesses. If I let even one associate escape my bottleneck . . . people whom I care about will be shot or worse in retaliation. I won’t let that happen.”

He flipped his mobile out and as he got into the driver’s seat of the vehicle, dialing as Aleksandra closed the passenger side door. He put the phone on its speaker setting and held it down near his lap so the cop wouldn’t catch sight of him using it and spook.

The MI-6 agent answered after the second ring.

“Is the rat in its wheel?” the man asked hopefully.

“Indeed it is, you have my position?”

“Affirmative, see you shortly.”

They drove along the winding crowded streets for nearly fifteen minutes until they came to the front entrance of an upscale resort style hotel. At eleven stories, the building commanded quite a place of attention for a gaze along the street.

“My guy’s coming out of the building now,” Sherlock told Aleksandra.

The dirty cop, oblivious to his impending arrest, parked his car and Sherlock did the same. He got out and smiled at the cop.

“I’m terribly sorry, but am I supposed to give you some sort of gratuity portion of The Prize?” Sherlock asked.

“I take fifteen percent,” the cop told him sharply.

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”

By now the MI-6 agent was standing on the kerb, as if waiting for a taxi right in front of the police cruiser, and was close enough to hear their entire conversation. While Sherlock had the policeman’s attention, the agent came round the car and into his view. Before the cop even had time to think about what was happening, Sherlock’s agent had his gun out and carefully trained on his quarry.

“Out of the vehicle now, Mr. Srisai,” the man told him curtly.

“What is this?!” the cop yelled looking from Sherlock to the MI-6 agent and back again.

“Well I rather think it’s the end of your days at the top of the food chain in these parts.”

“Mr. Moriarty will hear of this!”

Sherlock snorted. “Yeah, your daddy’s gone into hiding. I’m sure you’ll be able to reach him right away and he’ll jump to your rescue. Whatever Jim Moriarty is, he isn’t stupid. Sticking his neck out at a time like this is the very last thing he’d do.”

The MI-6 agent hauled the slender policeman out of the car and clapped a set of cuffs onto his wrists, talking into his bluetooth earpiece as he did so.

“Tango seven bravo, I have the suspect apprehended and will proceed directly to rendevous point.”

He carefully disarmed Moriarty’s man and secured him in the back of his own police car.

“Thanks for the help, Mr. Holmes,” the man said appreciatively. “We’ve been after this one for over eighteen months. He’s been funneling money to weapons brokers in Azerbaijan.”

“Yes, he’s one of Jim’s market proxies to be sure. Likely the most important one and the very last piece in this whole nasty drawn-out affair.”

The dark-eyed man nodded. “I’ll notify your brother that you’re doing well within the next twelve hours.”

“Very good, Ian. Perhaps if you don’t mind, you can notify that lovely silver fox of a husband of yours as well?”

Ian leveled a put upon look at Sherlock. “You know one of these days the three of us are going to sit down and you’re going to tell us how the bloody hell you deduced that he and I were married when the only other people who know are your brother and Miss Anthea Johnston. And I know neither of them said anything.”

“Perhaps I’m psychic, Ian.”

“You know, maybe you are. If anyone was, it’d be you.”

“Then you’ll give my love to Gordan Lestrade?”

“His name is Greg, you little fucking twat!” Ian told him sternly as he got behind the wheel of the car and shut the door. Sherlock gave him a disarmingly gleeful grin in return.

“Such language!”

Ian snorted. “You’ve been called worse in your day, Holmes.”

“Perhaps,” he said with a little wink. “Ta-ta now, I expect we’ll both be back on home turf for Mycroft’s wedding.”

Ian’s jaw fell open as his hand rested on the gearbox. “You can’t possibly know about that.”

Suddenly, Sherlock raised his fist in the air in boyish triumph. “YES! But now I do! I suspected of course, which isn’t the same as knowing, but you’ve just confirmed my suspicions! Is it soon? What am I saying, I’ve been gone nearly two years, of course it’s soon!”

“Fucking hell, I’ll just ring you later, yeah? Did you forget about the dirty rozzer in the back?”

“No no. Go on, I’ll see you back in London very soon!”

“It’s good to see you smile again, Sherlock. And yes, I’ll tell Greg you’re still in one piece next time I speak with him.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock said before waving Ian off. He watched his friend and colleague pull into the crawl of crazy traffic before boldly manoeuvring to create his own carriageway.

Aleksandra smiled at him prettily from where she stood with her back propped against the side of the jeep.

“Where you flirting with your friend’s husband?” she inquired curiously.

“Yes, but not in any meaningfully sexual way.”

“Ah.”

“Why, are you getting jealous already?”

“Oh, my poor dear Sherlock, no! I would say quite the opposite.”

“Aren’t you just full of surprises!”

“Believe me you have no idea.”

“Hey now, give me some credit, girl!”

“Okay yes, you are pretty bright. I’ll give you that. Perhaps you can  
even compete on my level.”

“Compete? What are we playing a game now?”

“Yes, we are. It’s called Follow The Leader. I lead, you follow, and if  
you are a very good player you win the best orgasm of your entire life.”  
Sherlock stared into her deep blue eyes, his gaze delving into the depths of her innermost consciousness. He had but one response to give her. 

“My dear, I am yours to command. Lead and I shall follow.”


End file.
